


And to the Victor Go the Spoils

by Mina Lightstar (ukefied)



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:02:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ukefied/pseuds/Mina%20Lightstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Locke's more memorable heists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And to the Victor Go the Spoils

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2009, as a gift for Tammaiya.

_Rachel_

 

When Locke Cole turns twelve years old, he decides to celebrate by scaling a wall, going through an open window, and stealing one of Rachel's shifts while the family is out of town. He later makes the mistake of bragging about it to Petyr, and word eventually gets back to Rachel.

This severely hinders his courtship.

***

"You _stole my underwear,_ " she accuses five years later, edging away from him and lifting her chin. She's trying to look down her nose at him, but he's taller, so it doesn't really work.

"I wanted to get your attention," he claims, rubbing the back of his head.

"You wanted my _underwear,_ " Rachel retorts, stepping one sharp heel squarely onto his foot.

"Ow!" _Wow, women really can stay mad forever._ "Okay," Locke concedes, hopping a little, "so you can have a pair of my underwear?"

The slap isn't what he expects -- probably because it's a punch in the face.

When he comes back the next day with flowers, she is a little more responsive. "Those are nice," she offers.

It's actually the biggest bouquet Kohlingen has ever _seen_ , but that's all right; he figures she's still a little mad. "They're for you," he says, presenting all the colors of the world to her in one neat little package. "Do you forgive me?"

She raises her eyebrow at him. "Did you steal them?"

Locke bristles, offended. " _No_ , and I'm hurt that you even think I would." He actually stole the gold helmet he sold for the money to buy the flowers. "I just wanted to show you that I think you're special."

This placates her somewhat. She smiles, and two spots of color form on her perfect cheeks. "That's, that's sweet." She accepts the bouquet and steps aside. "Would you like to come inside?"

"Thanks!" he chirps, confident but knowing that this is just the first step -- especially after he finds out her father still remembers the shift affair.

***

_Edgar_

 

In retrospect, trying to rob a chaperoned prince in South Figaro probably wasn't his brightest idea. "Owww," Locke whines, which only prompts the guard pinning his arms back to apply more pressure.

"Hold on, now," the prince orders, "take it easy; he's just a kid."

Locke makes a face. "So are you!" He points this out because he happens to know Prince Figaro is only a year or so older than him. Otherwise, he might not have been able to tell. Everything about the young blond man is -- older, refined. Edgar Figaro really looks years beyond his age.

Edgar cocks his head, considering him. "Why were you trying to pick my pocket? Are you hungry?"

"Nah," Locke admits, figuring he may as well be honest. "I just wanted to see if I could."

This makes the prince blink. "Whyever for?"

"Well, it's not every day you get to see a prince your own age, right? Besides," Locke adds with a shrug, "some extra gil would mean I can go to the market without worrying about spending my grandmother's hard-earned money."

Edgar Figaro continues to study him, revealing no emotion. "Where is your grandmother?"

"Back home in Kohlingen." Locke shifts in the guard's grip in an attempt to get some blood flowing. "She can't really travel no more, so I'm running her errands for her."

The prince visibly balks at this. "How _old_ are you?"

"Thirteen."

Edgar exchanges incredulous glances with his entourage. "And you're telling me you came all the way to South Figaro by yourself? To go to the _market_?"

Locke laughs. "Wow, Your Highness, you really are a prince. Can't you fight? I've got a dirk, and look -- I'm wearing leather armor. Monsters are dumb, too."

"Simpler than this one, at any rate," the guard restraining him quips.

"I'm not stupid," Locke retorts. "'Least I can get myself to South Figaro without a ring of bodyguards."

Edgar is tapping his lips, and looking Locke up and down. "I'm Edgar. What's your name?"

"Locke. Nice to meet'cha. My arms really hurt."

"Of course." Edgar gestures, and Locke is suddenly released. Locke takes time to stretch and rub some circulation back into his limbs. "Here, catch."

The leather pouch is heavy with coin. Locke stares at it for a moment, and then at Edgar. "Uh--"

"Give your grandmother my best regards," the prince requests, with a bow of his head.

Locke starts. "Oh, but, Edgar, I really don't need--" he realizes belatedly that he has dropped titles, but Edgar doesn't seem to mind.

"Are you in a hurry?" Edgar wonders. "It would be nice to talk to someone my own age for a while. Would you care to join us? We're here to inspect the market, anyway."

Taken aback, Locke can barely nod. "Okay."

***

"Do we need to talk about this?" Edgar wonders, with traces of uncertainty in his voice. He doesn't sound like a Crown Prince right now.

"No," Locke assures him. "Actually, it's probably better that don't -- ever."

"Hm," Edgar lifts an arm out of the perfumed bathwater, groping around for his glass of wine. "Was it a mistake?"

"No," Locke assures him again. "It was just, just something that happened. And we're friends, so it's okay, so long as we're still friends."

"Hm," Edgar says again, sipping some wine. "This reminds me of an old story."

"Yes," Locke agrees. "The Prince and the Man Who is Not a Prince. Although I don't remember this part."

"I don't think that was the title. Still, maybe you should get out of the bath."

"Right," Locke agrees hurriedly, and splashes around in his haste to obey that suggestion. The chill of the desert night hits him like a brick, and he steals Edgar's dressing gown. "So," he ventures, reveling in the fuzzy warmth, "so, are we okay with this?"

"I think so," Edgar says, though he still sounds distant. "I think we'll be just fine. We're just -- so much has happened to us in such a short time. My father, your grandmother...."

"Don't," Locke pleads. "I can't."

"I'm sorry." And he really does sound apologetic. "But," staring into his wineglass, "could we still sleep in the same bed? Or would that be too...?"

"No," Locke assures him a third time. "No, we can still do that."

***

_Sabin_

 

It had been a challenge, a dare. If Locke had known it would result in two-hundred pounds of Sabin Rene Figaro sitting on his back, he would have told the younger twin to do seven-hundred push-ups, instead.

"I officially don't believe you can steal clothes," Sabin announces.

"Okay," Locke croaks. "Maybe you're just prey of a -- urgh -- higher caliber?"

"Maybe," Sabin agrees. "You really held off the Empire in South Figaro by roof-hopping and stealing clothes, huh?"

"You just said you didn't believe me," Locke reminds him. "Ack -- please get off me."

"You're too thin for my clothes, anyway," Sabin quips. "The pants'd fall down."

"Uuuuuuurk."

***

_Celes_

 

He joins her at the Falcon's rail, barely registering the celebration taking place on the deck behind them. The wind blows her hair about her face; he catches its scent: sweat, blood, battle -- and she still smells beautiful to him.

He takes a chance, places his hand over hers on the railing. She responds by covering his with her other hand, and leaning in close.

"Thank you for saving me," she says over the roaring wind.

Locke remembers Kefka's crumbling tower, the ground giving way, his heart in his throat -- to lose her so soon after the ultimate victory, _no._

"Heist went off without a hitch," he quips back, and squeezes her hand.


End file.
